


Lost Stars

by lucitae



Category: C-Clown
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:33:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4645761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/pseuds/lucitae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And in all the places Barom goes, he wants Kang Jun by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue; paris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vjpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vjpaper/gifts).



> Happy Belated Birthday to Sei! In which, no amount of words dedicated to your name will ever be enough to convey how wonderful you are. All in all, I tried.
> 
> I recommend listening to lost stars, both the [original](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyT-oGDnMqE) and [Kangjun's version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ZNc72K6G7k), to understand how magical inspiration is. Specific portions can be correlated to specific verses and I apologize beforehand for faulty characterizations, unbeta'd madness, and second person pov.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Take my hand let's see where we wake up tomorrow  
> Best laid plans sometimes are just a one night stand"  
> \- Lost Stars

A silver screen and a blur of images as if filmed from a hand held camera. White sheets, white pillows, and white blankets; unnatural, giving away how this must have taken place in a hotel room. Warm lights and bare thighs, a sudden tilt of the angle where the camera is jostled and focuses on the hem of his shorts before readjusted to stare down at the owner's face. There's a smile and then hands attempting to shield himself from view. A laugh and a second hand that tries to pry it away resulting in another unstable footage.

"I'm not doing anything right now," the man complains while smiling, trying to bat away the camera again.

"No, but I'm joining you this time," comes the reply as the camera shifts to adjust two figures into the same screen. Both are smiling and the second one says: "say hello to the camera. This is Christian and the one beside me is"

"Kangjuuuuuuuuuuun," which somehow makes the man named Christian smile even wider.

A double wave until Christian turns to look at the other, pressing a kiss to his temple. There's a laugh, a light shove, and Christian's knuckles brushing against the other's temples seemingly catalyzing the subsequent yawn and the sleepy blinks.

"Good night."

This is where the footage ends.

 

 **ll** pause

 

"What happened next?"

"I left."

 

► play

 

You never tell him what happens next. How your hand cradled his head before setting it against the pillow for support. How the camera was set on the wooden bedside table because you couldn't bring yourself to record what happened afterwards (even though that was why you brought it out in the first place) and then with both hands cupping his face, you removed yourself from his memories. In doing so, you relived them again: watching the space where you used to be occupied by air.

It ended like the first time: you in tears. But this time, with trembling hands, you wrote a vague letter so he wouldn't end up feeling empty. With the last of sentiment conveyed through lips to a forehead, you left.


	2. déjà vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't you dare let our best memories bring you sorrow  
> Yesterday I saw a lion kiss a deer  
> Turn the page maybe we'll find a brand new ending  
> Where we're dancing in our tears"  
> \- Lost Stars Lyrics

"So how did we meet?"

What a simple yet difficult question, where Barom can point out at least three distinctive moments that could fall under this category, images— No, _memories_  flood the mind, the ones taken and the single set that they share. 

"I have all day," the tone is encouraging and warm like the smile he provides or the way his forearm presses into Barom's, knees tucked as the photoalbum balances on his lap. Barom's never been one to deny Kang Jun after all, not this time at least.

"We were in Rome, in a sea of humans spectating the b-boy scene. At least I was, with a camera poised at the center of the dance floor and then—"

 

► play

 

Somehow all cities seem the same when one enters the basement of a club. Of course, there are obvious differences such as music, language, a personal touch to the place in terms of decorations but the atmosphere is the same. It feels like home or at least carries a sense of nostalgia as the body weaves through crowds, trying to get a glance at the dancefloor. The cheers from the crowd and the bass thuds, a kaledioscope of colored lights illuminating figures, the twist of bodies and legs in the form one could only hope to mimic. A camera raised, taking in the scene through a second eye for a documentary you wished to create for the mass to understand such art form.

There's a tap on your arm to the left and a smile that throws you off balance.

"Are you Korean?" and you begin to wonder what gave you away because the accent of your English is definitely Australian and  
"It has been a while since I conversed with someone from my own country, so I decided to give it a shot."

The smile never falters and you hear yourself saying  _yes_. The smile widens and he points back to the center of the floor as if urging you to continue your work. So you do.

 

The battle dies down eventually and he's still there, balancing his head on his knuckles as if in thought. He's still there when you pack away your camera into its case. There's a moment when you wish to bring it out again: his hair tinged blue and then red under the lights, the way lashes framed his eyes as he looked into the crowd, the way recognition lit up in the eyes when he turned, and the curl of the lips so natural as they revealed the rows of teeth. What a waste. You think it is the filmmaker side of you speaking.

"Barom," you offer with an extended hand and a cleared throat. For a moment, you panic, wondering about customs and how naturally you assumed before he takes it and replies with "Kang Jun."

"What brings you here?"

This is how the conversation begins and never really ends.

 

It merely gets moved to Trevi Fountain where bodies are filled with more caffeine than alcohol so premature goodbyes are never uttered. Like everywhere else you've visited, this place is also packed with tourists. Honestly, this place earns it. The sheer awe this fountain evokes, the intricacy in the sculptures and the mythologies it depicts, the reflection of light through coins resting at the floor of the fountain, and the amount of stories flowing in the 80 million liters of water cycled daily.  You look at the humans bustling about through your lenses, snapping away occasionally at individuals that catch your interest. You turn to your left and see the boy toss a coin over his shoulder and bow his head in prayer. You immortalize the memory, sever it from the rest with a click of the button, sheepish when it causes him to turn in your direction. "Sorry," you attempt with a wave of your hand, "creature of habit." There's a shake of his head followed by a smile and you think that means forgiveness.

"Weren't you here a day ago?" you ask, remembering details from the conversation before dawn.

A shrug. "It doesn't hurt to strengthen your wish." Somehow this has you drawing a coin from your wallet and repeating the actions you just witnessed.

Your wish?  
Why, it is a secret of course.

 

He turns around, encouraging you to catch up before taking matters in his own hands— or rather, your hands in his as he drags you through a crowd. A bit nauseating perhaps from the hunger pains or the adrenaline but he keeps you going. 

"Spanish steps?" you exhale upon recognizing the location: 135 steps of stairs before one can reach the Trinità dei Monti church at the top. You turn towards him as you try to fight the smile off your face but fails.

"You said you wanted to see it."

"Yes, of course," barely contained excitement. "Roman Holiday was filmed here and—" a little 360 rotation as if to confirm reality, a little disappointed at the flock of individuals hoping to reenact the scene. How boring. Movies should serve as inspiration, for reinterpretation, for auteur theory to take place and directors to make a work their own. Then again, these individuals here are probably not artists.

"Sit there," you point to some steps and he seems taken aback by the command. You mend it with a "please."

There's hesitance and perhaps he's the kind who dislikes to be taken pictures of because he says, "I could take a picture for you?"

You don't trust anyone with your camera and even if you did, he wouln't have the same touch as yours. "Please," you repeat again before adding, "if you don't mind."

"I don't," he says before seating himself where you directed him to, "I just thought you wanted to have tangible memories of being here."

You only smile before snapping away. It is amazing how he differs from most subjects. Humans tend to be self conscious when observed, even more so when it is as obvious as having a camera directed your way. But he merely keeps the conversation flowing, still narrating and explaining as if the bulky camera wasn't separating the two of you.

The camera lowers for a fraction and for a second you wished you could imprint this scene into memory.

 

"Where next?" he asks, elbows propped against the rails overlooking the Tiber, staring at you while taking a sip from the hot chocolate in hand. His head obscuring the setting sun as light filters through the strands of dark hair. Golden hours, perfect for filming. This is where the human eye reveals more than what a camera can. Through film, the back light would only result is a barely distinguishable silhouette.

"Uh..." you attempt, collecting thoughts and hoping to fill in awkward space. "London. Well, at least I hoped to. I don't think I have enough left for a plane ticket there and to go back home." You can only blame it on your own lack of self control. The window shopping provided by the street opposite of the Spanish Steps lured you in.

"Hmm," thoughtful as he looks out towards the waters again. You do the same, leaving only centimeters between elbows.

"I could take you there," he begins and you turn to greet him with a grin when you notice his expression. Eyes alive as if sharing some secret but the corner of the lips are not curled in the way you are used to. He seems...  _serious_. So you take it that way, lending an ear as you inch closer. "I have this...  _ability_ ," hesitant as he divulges, "I can go anywhere as long as I know where I want to go."

"You'll need an image to get there?"

He nods.

"Then count yourself lucky." Fingers against his temples as you implant one of your memories into his brain. An image of the Big Ben before you step away. "Call this even." Hoping that this act would be enough to establish a foundation of trust.

"That's so cool! How did you—" eyes wide as he tried to comprehend.

You lean in to ensure that no one overhears, "I'm a memory manipulator."

 

Compression around your lungs, a heart about to collapse upon itself, a body compacted to the area above a pin and suddenly the scene around you changes. No longer is the sun bright and nearly lethal from the way it wishes to roast you into a grease spot. The air is cooler, damper and you think you can taste the London fog. There's no bridge to help your transition between the plane and the airport terminal, slowly adjusting to the weather and absorbing atmosphere. It's a convenient way of transportation — via teleportation — but would take a while to get acquainted with. You grip his arm for support and he just laughs without rejecting the touch.

"Vertigo?"

You shake your head, taking a deep breath, listening to the pounding in your ears and the thundering in your chest, "could take some getting used to."

"You'll learn," he says as he helps you up with a firm grip of your hand. It might have been the journey but you think it sounds like a promise.

 

The click of the camera is the only sound as it captures images of this city's congested veins. So absorbed in your work that you forget about your companion. Noon brings about a sun more earnest to provide warmth, fog long dissipated, shades still present but shrinking with time. You look up and wonder if it is the shading or if he does look paler than before. You reach out before he topples over, the camera momentarily forgotten as you help him sit.

A labored breath, signs of fatigue and then you realize the luggage he's had to transport along with yourself — the suitcases he's been helping you guard while you were absorbed in the little world revolving around lens and digitalized memories. You wonder how much it took out of him. Days after memory removals, additions, or manipulations leaves you wanting to lie in bed for the next century. Appetite increases, exhaustion visits sooner, and drowsiness hits in intervals throughout the day. You've been self absorbed this entire time and forgotten about the one who brought you here.

"I'm sorry." It comes out like a child fumbling and you wish you could make up for it somehow, impulse urges you to take his hand in your own and give it a squeeze. "I didn't even..." notice nor buy him food as a way to compensate. It is past noon and the only thing you had were drinks at that club from last night. "Let's get you some food and then check in, okay?"

 

"That was cool." His hands are behind his back, excited as he looks around the lobby as you wait for the elevator. Color seems to have returned to his face after some fish and chips.

You laugh. "You make it sound like you've never checked in before."

He blinks. Then the voice drops to a barely audible whisper and you think you're in a spy movie conversing about some conspiracy when he says, "I haven't."

Eyebrows knit as you press the button to your floor, probably should have stayed at a bed and breakfast to go easy on your wallet but since the air fare was saved you decided to splurge. "What do you mean?" Kang Jun seems like one of those seasoned travellers that's been everywhere. To not have ever needed to stay at a hotel at some point seems implausible. 

He leans closer as the two of you step out of the elevators, lips brushing against your ears as he confides in you his darkest secret: "I sneak in after hours and pick an empty bed to crash in."

There's nothing against satisfying basic needs and you think if you could walk through walls you would have done the same.

"Well now you know how boring the transaction is," you amend.

 

So it becomes some sort of unspoken arrangement from that point forward: he provides the transportation and you provide shelter. It's only fair. Not that you mind. You think a guaranteed roof over his head is the least he deserves and even this isn't enough to repay him for what he's done. It isn't just conserving your wallet in terms of plane fees but as well as local transportation. Besides, it is much more fun to explore a city with a friend than alone.

Whispers exchanged in the British Museum, because both of you forfeited an audio guide so are left to your own devices as to how to bring history alive. Kang Jun does most of the work, adding his own explanations that has you clamping down on your hand to prevent from disturbing other visitors. You punch his arm in revenge as he smiles in triumph. Occasionally you get caught up, excited narrations as you recall the classes you haven't slept through thanks to a good professor and he listens like a good student would. You try to answer his questions but you are a film student in the end. Tangents occur and you end up telling him about a project on your mind or how this piece could be added to what you wanted to film and direct.

He poses in front of the London Eye, pretends to climb over the fence to take a glimpse at the Queen in Buckingham's Palace, head bowed and lips muttering a prayer in Westminster Abbey, and watches the sunset on Tower Bridge.

A quick trip to Copenhagen where he poses like The Little Mermaid, drawing attention from the crowd. A boat ride in Nyhavn where you scoffed at the pretty colored houses printed on every postcard but still snapped away at it because you wanted to make some for him to have. Whined at how the Tivoli gardens were closed because you wanted to see the inspiration for Disney World and he assured you with a  _next time_. Stared at the procession of guards in Amalienborg and used to the cold as an excuse to huddle closer, trying to warm hands with a cup of coffee by one of those vendors on bikes. Church of Our Savior with its winding tower and diminishing steps; where, when you are at the top of the world, your knees get knocked out by Kang Jun a few steps ahead of you, yelling as the wind tousles his hair and you forget to focus on the golden glow of sunset illuminating the city and instead turn your camera to capture your vision.

And then it is Berlin where you have five hour long dinners, two-thirds of the time spent drinking beer and recounting the past. Vibrant night life where you spend the majority of the time trying to complete your documentary on the b-boy scene and he indulges you to the point that whenever you replay a scene, you can pick up his hollers from the crowd. However, most of the time is spent site-seeing. Some nights you cave into the need for sleep, forfeit chances to film because somehow this is more important instead. A peaceful face slumbering, free from the worries in the world and you wish you could keep it there.

Brandenburg gate when you capture the first picture of you and him and then retake a couple because the gate needs to be in full view. Halt before the Berlin Wall and use up nearly all of the memory card, stay longer than you promised until he has to drag you away and tell you again that  _you've taken ten pictures of this graffiti already, it isn't going to change in the next second so let's go_ , all in good humor. Reichstag Building and its breathtaking transparency and history where you get caught up in reproducing images countless others have done for postcards. Museum Island where the two of you play the same game again, creating memories entirely your own. Checkpoint Charlie where you give up taking pictures due to tourists and instead take pictures through a cafe window while capturing a coffee mustache on Kang Jun's face. You wait for him at the edge of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe and he emerges in tears. Memory Void in the Jewish Museum where all you have is a fifteen minute footage of him exploring the space, capturing the clinks of metal against metal as he stares down in awe. You think the expression on your face mimics his and neither of you speak of the experience. Huddle together in the Holocaust Tower, staring at hope in the form of ladders too far out of reach and that sliver of light at the end. Get lost in the Garden of Exile only to find relief wash over you when your hands find his when you turn a corner.

There are so many little moments if only your camera could do them justice. The mind is prone to fault even for someone like you and emotions can slip away in time. Yet, the only thing you are certain of is how you wish to explore more places with him by your side.

 

 **ll**  pause 

 

You see him at the cafe. Or rather, you remember him at a cafe. It isn't Kang Jun who is sitting in front of you but your best friend, smiling as he takes a sip of coffee. You didn't know it back then but he had long mixed poison into the cup. Should have known something was up when he asked you to bring your camera and keep it rolling, when he said  _thank you_ out of the blue. He's never been the same since he came back from that dance academy in France.

He's practicing—  
_You_ 're practicing. Seeing yourself stretch in the mirror, keeping a head down so the other students would pay you no heed. But they always do. Jealousy reveals the worst of humanity as they taunt, knowing you barely grasp their language, angry that the male lead was snatched away by some foreign transfer student. They quiet when she enters, almost holy the way they whisper her name: Laetitia. They don't know how she's been teaching you after lessons, tracing words into the heart of your palm and simultaneously moving into it. 

Fortune isn't permanent. Expectations build and so does stress until it becomes a monster, threatening to swallow you whole. You lose, your body caves. When you faint and fall, she's taken with it, your arms no longer able to support her weight. Her career as a ballerina is over. Smile still gentle and words still kind when she says that this is perhaps for the best, that she was never prepared for the hardships of this life.

It is this kindness that killed you.  
It is this kindness that killed _him_.

Guilt weighs but expectations weigh even more. You glance up and Kang Jun merely smiles back. You could get use to this, to him. 

You can see yourself curling into his side even when cramped in small hotel rooms due to money restraints, you can see yourself leaning in to take selfies of the two of you and some vague monument in the background, you can see yourself spending your entire life documenting him travelling around the world. You can see yourself laughing at his jokes in an outdoor cafe at Capri, trying in vain to capture scenes of the Blue Grotto but only to be distracted by the way he teases you for your attempts, jokingly holding out a spaghetti strand to see if he'll indulge you in re-enacting a Disney movie, and allowing him to handle your camera and capture you taking a sip from his island fruit tea.

This is what strikes fear into your soul.

Eventually, once this has settled into routine, expectations grow, and it changes into a monstrosity. Happiness gets turned into a fear for abandonment. If you don't run away, you'll be eaten.

So you run, taking these months worth of memories with you. In this story, Kang Jun never meets a Barom Yu.

 

► play

 

There's a figure so familiar it makes your heart fold upon itself walking towards you. At first, you think it is the lack of sleep because early morning fog of the Charles Bridge in Prague is every photographer's dream before you caught the morning flight bound for Barcelona. Perhaps the caffeine on top of this only amplified the hallucinations (the mind has a way of evoking the heart's desires). 

But this part has to be real. The part where you collide, partially in a trance, partially because he's hurrying towards something in your direction. There's a spray of coffee and you think this is one of those shitty scripts that you have to salvage because your director's title is at stake.

"I'm sorry," you fumble in your native tongue, digging for napkins to reduce the mess. "I wasn't watching where I was going and—"

He stills before saying, "You're Korean too?" A smile grows on lips like the first time you met him and you fight the urge to return it.

"Yeah. The name's Rome," you offer to trigger memory and with an extended hand before realizing it was the one with the napkins. Withdraw and re-extend again.

"Kang Jun. Pleased to meet you." A pause and then "Rome, huh."

You look up at him, hand frozen on his chest from where it was trying to absorb the coffee stain. He seems to sense the hesitation and smiles kindly.

"I've been there," he amends, "wasn't that impressive." He shrugs and you wonder what happened because that city still means a lot to you. The memories still contained in the streets still visit in the form of dreams.

"How so?" you ask because curiosity always wins.

"It was... lonely."

You search his eyes for a flash of recognition, for memories to catch up but it never happens, confirming that your removal was complete. There's a twinge in your chest and you aren't quite sure if it is out of disappointment or relief.

 

Somehow this is like the first time all over again with a finger on the fast forward button: you give up your secrets and he divulges his. The same stories retold in a different setting, a different light and you think this is why humans reread books or rewatch movies and never get tired of the same thing. You share your aspirations and he listens as attentively as the first time, hoping to help and quickly modifying it with an "if you don't mind."

"I don't," you assure him, "as long as you are willing to let me film you."

He looks at you, puzzled. The same  _why me_ expression there and oh if you could only tell him why without ruining what was once precious. 

"Anyone can take pictures of buildings, slap it on a postcard and no one can tell the difference. But humans are momentary. You can revisit the same place a hundred times and each time there will be a different scene because of the individuals who surround it. Living and dynamic and," you pause, wondering if you bored him or scared him while lost in your own explanation. "I want you to be the subject. Think of it as a documentary of sorts," you implore. You think you see a tinge of pink on his cheeks as he nods, giving you permission. "Thank you." And you mean it, tempted to reach out and pat his head but the familiarity behind the gesture may seem to abrupt. Maybe you should have erased your own memories while you were at it.

"You sure you don't want any photos of yourself?" he asks, picking up quickly because even you are a human subject that could be placed under the scrutiny of the lens. "Capture tangible moments of being here."

You give it a thought, a moment of hesitation as your thumb caresses the camera around your neck and you see the way his lips part, about to retract his offer when you hand it to him. "Please," you add with a smile.

So somewhere between the hundreds of photographs of Kang Jun there is one of you before the Sagrada Família.

 

Park Güell: seated on the serpentine bench and panning the entire length only to notice that it's too long to fit so instead of documenting unnamed lovers whispering sweet things, you focus on Kang Jun instead — lost in thought, staring at the sunset as if he's just found his muse and is about to recite poetry at the spot. And then he turns and looks at you, or rather the camera, and breaks into a smile. You don't really describe things as  _beautiful_ but it seems to be the only term adequate at this time and place. Stroll past the mosaic salamander guarding the steps, stare at the pavilion near the front entrance where he talks about how it looks like the candy house taken right out of Hansel and Gretel and you laugh.  _Wrong country_ , you say,  _we should have visited Copenhagen for fairy tales_. And then you recall that you have been there, with him. Except you stole it from him like the rest of the memories you once shared.

He says  _next time_ and you feel like crying until he distracts you with his words. The creation of this park and Gaudí's vision. Mythology, history, philosophy, even elements of religion and politics are left behind in the cracks of this park. The genius behind even something like the serpentine bench they were on moments ago, how it dried faster and allowed for secret conversations, or the lower court just underneath that helped remove water and was meant as the marketplace for this expensive collective of custom homes. Then he gets caught up in how the natural elements of the park intertwine with the artificial, the coloring of the mosaic, how all this artistic style culminated in the Sagrada Família.

You realized something important then. Perhaps you were an artist in how you captured art but, ultimately, you were only here to capture art. He, on the other hand, was art.

 

And so you attempt to capture it. There's a video on your phone of Kang Jun doing the whip it in a nameless hotel room in Prague, one where he's singing Lay Me Down by Sam Smith and you've lost count of how many times you've replayed that sixteen second clip, another one where he's just on his phone and playing a game while waiting for you to return.

There's also a million other scenes you couldn't capture on film. Ones you tried to imprint into your memories so you wouldn't forget. Like when the two of you revisited Copenhagen and finally was able to enter the Tivoli gardens, riding the oldest roller coaster and the way he hollers to combat the fear has you joining him too. Or trying a flødeboller and watching his eyes widen as he gets past the chocolate coating and into the section that feels like a marshmallow, cheeks stuffed as he tries to tell you how great it is. How photogenic the entire amusement park is but you only had eyes for one individual, or rather, you followed his flow and was caught up in his enthusiasm. You doubt you would have had this much fun alone.

Then there's the late night beer as you waited for fireworks, trying a bit of Carlsburg and wishing you were back in Berlin. The little lights that welcomed Christmas and how it colored his hair. The way the two of you staggered drunkenly into Frederik's Church and laid down at the foot of the alter while watching the lights change color to the beat of the DJ's music. Nothing too upbeat like the clubs they promote a few streets down but it washes over you like the ocean and that is probably when you become aware of how fortunate you were to meet him again. The way you sometimes catch him staring at you in admiration even if you should be the one doing so for the amount of knowledge he possesses. The way he keeps your mood uplifted with his random interjections or bold attempts to test out another language on his tongue. Maybe it is the alcohol getting to you, the depressant after the initial euphoria that has you understanding that he deserves so much more. 

He's staring at the ceiling and then at Jesus who is red and then blue. Half-lidded eyes and tousled hair has you tracing the line of his jaw with the back of your hand. He closes his eyes and leans in. You think you don't deserve this kind of trust, not after what you've done. You want to cry or maybe give him back his memories to see if he would still be willing to trust you like this. But then you fear the worst reaction and realize how much you haven't changed. Still a coward. Still running.

So give him a fighting chance.

 

You drag your feet for at least another three cities. Couldn't bring yourself to do it in Florence because there was too much to take in and record. He was beautiful there, the way he gushed about everything, held your hand and ran through streets trying to get to places as soon as possible until you reminded him of teleportation abilities. The dawning of realization, the flustered  _oh right_ , the collapse of air around you and you couldn't surrender this.

Amsterdam was another city of art. The Van Gogh museum where he recounted stories, talking about Gauguin and Van Gogh: the speculation, the friendship that once was, deriving inspiration from each other, two lost souls trying to make it in life and again you couldn't remove yourself. Then he wept in Anne Frank's museum and you did too while cradling his head, questioning how the world could be so cruel. Canal rides through the city and you kind of wished you were in Venice so he could sing in harmony with the gondolier but then you saw the expression on his face as he pointed at places you've passed by and decided that this was much better.

Prague was the place where you put your foot down. It took too much out of you though. Lennon Wall and the graffiti had you reconsidering. The morning fog and how he pressed into your side on the Charles Bridge had you reassess your decision. The hike to the Prague Castle, past the Old Town Square where the both of you stopped for some Bohemian hot chocolate spiked with absinthe had you reviewing everything. 

Yet, in the end, the same story repeats itself. You remove yourself from his life with an envelope: compensation in monetary form because you couldn't bare having him sleep in secret again.  Left behind a letter because you didn't want him to wake up lonely again.

 

◼ stop

"And then?" 

"Then... you should recall how we met for the first time, this time around."

A finger pointed at Barom, almost accusingly but the expression is light and cheerful. "You spilled coffee on me and apologized, _again_." He seems to understand that this was another little test, to see if memories could be triggered even if Barom knew the extent and the permanence of his abilities. 

"Why didn't you just restore the memories?" it is out of curiosity as fingers continue to thumb through the photobooks depicting his face. Kang Jun eating trdelník in the streets of Prague or Kang Jun sipping his hot chocolate with red mittens or Kang Jun absorbed in his little world sustained by his phone and earbuds or Kang Jun

"It... doesn't work that way. Sometimes it can tear a person apart." Barom's throat feels dry as he attempts the explanation, looking away from the photo album still splayed across the other's lap.

"Were you afraid that things would change if you restored them?" the other speaks up after a moment of silence, inching closer. The photo album is placed back on the table in front as hands find Barom's arm and he's forced to look. "That this would change?"

Deep breath. "Yes." Of course. Trust issues would occur, fear of abandonment, attachment issues or is this more about Barom than anyone else. He's assuming again even though he's made up his mind to try this time, to be worthy. "How could it not?" If he were in Kang Jun's shoes he would have left, in anger at the things left unsaid, at stealing memories and leaving behind pockets of empty space. He wouldn't have been able to forgive himself. He still can't.

There's a hum as hands pick up the same book again and flip through its contents once more, thoughtful as he skims. "But all I see here is affection: the attempt to leave behind tangible memories and I can't bring myself to be upset about it. If anything, I'm flattered." How many times has Barom played the same clips, the edited montages to see this face and that gentle smile of his. How many times has Barom flipped through the volumes on his shelf to relive moments, ensuring that the faulty mind doesn't let them fade away.

 

"Wait," Barom interjects as he remembers exiting the shower only to see a visitor in the middle of his living room, flipping through his treasured photographs, the tips of the intruder's ears tinged pink. The last time he's seen the other was in Prague, overlooking the same river before Barom had reencountered Kang Jun in Barcelona. A vague parting because a chance encounter doesn't call for permanence or big decisions. A goodbye because you'll see him again seems to be the message from all these meetings that if it was fate at work then this was meant to be. You never told him where you were headed. "How did you find me?"

"An image in my head. A place I had never seen before and it wasn't like the déjà vus I experience around you. So I assumed it was a planted memory, by accident or an invitation. You did tell me to visit."

"I did, didn't I?" A laugh because it must have been the desperation to see him again that resulted in an implanted memory, subtle enough. No longer one of those games where he would leave snap shots in Kang Jun's head of another city, another place, another time but with the same actions. Ketchup and a burger or another outdoor cafe and cups of coffee. You wanted to do it right this time; still caught in the debate of whether or not you should show him the truth. Now you have your answer.

 

"So why 'Christian Yu'? Why not Barom or Rome?" he asks, out of the blue, eyes still glued to the footage of him in Amsterdam reenacting Eddy Kim's The Manual. "Or Amsterdam?" Tone teasing, eyes mischievous as they turn to look at Barom, eliciting a laugh in response.

"Because you said Christian sounded sophisticated."  
 Because, this time, I wanted to be worthy of your love.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading through this mess and a half of a fic, perhaps I'll revisit when my writing returns from war. Apologies for the list of sites, I do highly recommend giving them a visit (especially the Jewish Museum in Berlin).
> 
> As always, comments and kudos much appreciated!


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